Tradition
by MarigoldStevens
Summary: The way one plays the piano says more about them than spoken words ever could. One shot.


**This was inspired by the I'm All Teeth's amazing one shot FortePiano. Really, you need to read it. It really stuck with me, and I started writing this last night, then had to finish today. I'm weirdly proud of it in a way, even if it isn't my best work. Hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling, contrary to popular belief.**

She played the piano like she had some sort of grudge against it; banging on the keys, her arms flailing about. But somehow, it came out hauntingly beautiful, like she was trying to say something you might not really want to hear. She never played at the appropriate time, usually it was at some ungodly hour when everyone else was sleeping. Then she would rush down the stairs in a fit of madness, closing the door to the parlor behind her. Piles of rejected practice books and mundane sheet music lay scattered about, she argued that none of it held interest to her.

Where the notes came from she didn't know. All she knew was that her fingers were controlled by some force pressing in on her, suffocating her unless she played. She didn't focus so much on playing with structure and discipline, it was the sound that was appealing to her. Some days she'd try and avoid the blasted thing, but she always ended up rushing to it like a ship to a lighthouse. That stupid little man had tried to teach her theory and rules, but she ignored most of it, only keeping hold at enough of what he had said to make her music borderline insane but still tolerable, nothing more. He didn't understand: she didn't play because she loved it, she played because she needed it. Her only rule was that nothing was written down. Everything was played on the spot, and nothing was to be memorized.

"But Bella," Cissy had begged her, "It's so..." at this she paused, searching for the right word. Pretty was so flimsy and airy, nothing like the dark crashing melodies that she'd been playing. Pretty was blond hair and frilly lace, pretty was Narcissa. "different. It's almost selfish to not write them down, now no one else can play them, even you," she said, poking out her lower lip. Bellatrix had rolled her eyes-honestly, her sister was so whiny sometimes-but she couldn't help but admit that the little girl had said something even she couldn't put into words herself. It was the fact that once she played that note, once it had hung in the air for a fragile half second, that was it. The notes would never be played the same way again, forcing you to listen to what she was trying to say. Poetic, really, how she thought about it. She snorted. Poetic? Her? No, she was just playing random keys, making as much noise as possible. Nothing artistic or soulful about it.

She played the piano like a tired old habit. At first, it had been captivating: that grand piano, all the un-mastered pieces to learn. But it grew dull quickly. Hours had been spent slaving over memorizing notes and chords, working towards the Goal; towards perfection. Her music teacher lavished her with compliments, how good she was, what a fast learner. His zeal soon grew meaningless. But soon after, she stopped.

She got no joy from it, her insides didn't swell up with happiness and her emotions didn't pour out through her playing. Why should she spend all her free time reading music and having her hands cramp up while Bella could refuse to lay a finger on it for days, only to waltz downstairs late at night and make the instrument something dark and emotional in seconds. Bella didn't take the time to go through the stationary practice books or practice at least an hour a day, but she was still better and her sister hated her even more for it.

Once, she had came to listen to Bellatrix play. She could hear her from her room, but it just wasn't the same. She promised herself she would only sit on the stairs, but it wasn't enough. So she moved next to the door, closing her eyes and listening. It was something bitter, frightening little notes springing up in a steady stream of deep mournful wails, clashing together to make something terrifying and beautiful all at once. She wanted to see her play, only for a second. Gently opening the door, she leaned in, watching her sisters bony fingers fly across the keys. Her dark hair tumbled down her back, her shoulders tensed. Even when she wasn't aware of anyone watching, her sister still maintained that dramatic flair. Suddenly, she stopped, hands falling into her lap.

"Evening Andy," she said. "Trying to improve?" she mocked in that little sing-song tone. Andromeda quickly stepped backwards, wishing that she had never came in the first place. Bella whirled around, skinny dark eyebrows raised.

"You know, you wouldn't be that bad if you didn't try so hard," she said. Andromeda slowly turned back around.

"That doesn't make sense, practice makes perfect," she replied in a monotone voice. Bella's full lips curved upwards into an almost smile.

"Ah, and here's the root of our problem: perfection. As long as you try to play everything exactly the way that dumpy little teacher tells you to, you will never sound perfect. You know what to play, but you sound forced and hollow. There's no feeling in your music, it's not enjoyable to listen to. If you would just loosen up-"

"Don't you dare criticize me!" she snarled, whirling on her heel out the door. She looked back for a second, just in time to see Bella shrug, then turn back around and start playing again. This time it was fast jittery notes paired with something high and clanging. It was mocking her.

"I'd like to dedicate this one to my sister, Andromeda. It's called 'Perfection'. Enjoy!" her deranged sister cackled to an imaginary audience, the tune now going faster and faster and the notes slurring together into a whirlwind of impossible sound. But it was still better than she could have played.

She played like she was expecting someone to swoop in and scold her for playing it wrong at every note. She wanted to play good, she did. Often she would find herself thinking about just letting go and letting her fingers move where they wanted to go, the way Bella did. But every time, something held her back.

It wasn't as if she didn't know the notes; in fact, she would admit (to herself, of course, not out loud) that she knew them better than her older sisters. Bella was the dramatic one, swooping in and out like some lunatic to stow away in the parlor at indecent hours, banging and spinning out melodies all to try and coax the piano into saying something she herself could not. Andromeda was so proper and _dignified_ about it all, a snob about something she didn't understand herself.

"Oh, don't you know that note Cissy? Well I do," "Oh look, you're suppose to play that cord," "Too slow Cissy, you're losing momentum,". Her sister would stand over her shoulder, sniffing as if she had mastered the grand instrument long before anyone else. What Andromeda didn't understand was that she could practice all she wanted, but she didn't put _soul_ into her playing. Narcissa supposed this was half because her sister's soul was so bland the piano denied it, perferring Bella's mad but begrudgingly emotional playing to her sisters canned perfection.

Narcissa was one step ahead of her sister: she knew that to play well, one needed soul and expression flowing through each and every chord. But, the thing was, she didn't know how to go about that.

"Cissy? I knew it must be you, it's not stoic enough to be Andy," Bella had glided easily up behind her, her dark waves hanging in her face. She tilted her head, looking at her younger sister. "Why so sad?"

Narcissa sniffed. "It's just not coming out right!" she wailed. "I want to play like you do, but I just can't!" her sister poked out her full lips, looking childish.

"It's because you second guess yourself Narcissa. You know how to play, but you question every key you strike. It's like you're waiting for someone to say it's wrong, and it's usually not," she tilted her head. "It may not be much to you, but that second you pause to make sure you're playing it right might as well be an hour delay. Granted, it's still more enjoyable than listening to our dear tone-deaf sister bat away at the helpless piano, but it just sounds slow," Narcissa blinked, she hadn't expected her sister to actually be helpful. She hadn't even known Bella was even aware of her struggles.

Bellatrix started to walk back out after patting Narcissa's blonde head, but she stopped and turned back around. "Why does it matter so much to you anyway?" she questioned.

"Because I want to speak through it like you do, Bella," she whispered. Her sister sneered.

"You talk about it as if it's alive, Cissy. Don't be daft; it's only an instrument," she replied, shaking her head.

He played like he was having a conversation with an old friend. Sometimes he was angry at it, striking the keys with such a vengeance his mother would peek in, eyes all wide and frightened like a rabbit's. Sometimes he would play an optimistic little melody, a small smile hinting at his lips. But mostly he played as if tired and worn out, but still with a barely detectable dash of hope.

He hadn't even wanted to learn in the first place, but his mother had argued that it was a "valuable skill" and he'd "thank her later". He quickly snapped back, but then she started retreating all pathetic like, and he quickly agreed. She was so fragile sometimes, he had to be sure she didn't break. He would never admit it to her, but on the inside he was thanking her.

He found playing comforting, letting the notes speak for him. Some days he'd hear his mother daintily pressing on the keys, so soft you could barely hear her.

In his sixth year it transformed from something he did for enjoyment to something he did because he had to. His love-yes, he had once loved to play, loved the fact that striking a few chords here and there said more than he ever could-twisted into something he despised. He would throw himself at it, frantically spewing out dark crashing sounds that rose up into the air. His mother would often come in, her face too pale and too thin, her lips pressed in a thin line. "Play for me Draco," she'd whisper, and he'd quickly turn out something melodramatic but quietly optimistic, watching as her face relaxed and she started breathing again. His hands raced up and down the keyboard as if he couldn't play fast enough, worried that if he didn't quickly make her herself again she would disappear forever. The piano was no longer a source of happiness, but a way to keep his mother there with him. He hated it.

Just once did he hear his aunt play. He had been playing himself, depressing and angry, the room almost vibrating with the sounds. When he stopped he heard a slow mocking clap. Whirling around he saw her, standing in the doorway and smirking. "Well well well," she said in that child-like voice, "seems a Malfoy finally did something right," she said. She crossed the room in a flurry of black fabric and ancient perfume, waiting behind the bench until he hopped up, scrambling to the wall. She sat daintily down, cleared her throat, and then attacked the instrument. A storm of furious chords and notes whirled around him, flats and sharps being sent his way like she was trying to make him choke. The message was clear, at least to him: a hint of happy with a few seconds of bitterness under a sea of madness, all portrayed by chords and notes that Draco himself had played. But they had never sounded like this.

Her fingers sprang at the keys, her eyes wide and her face scrunched up. All at once she stopped, her shoulders collapsing and her head hanging down. Before he could say something, she sprang back up, a wild look in her eyes. Always the dramatic, his mother had said.

"Seems you've inherited my gift," she rasped. "Don't be a fool about it Draco," she cooed, taking his head in her hand, fingernails digging in his cheek. He remained expressionless. In a second, her face reverted back to a cool mask eerily similar to his. "Besides, it's only a piano," she hissed, stalking off, the haunting tune still hanging in the air.

He played like someone who was so excited they couldn't contain themselves. His chubby fingers rushed at the keys, spitting out wrong notes left and right. The pitch was usually off, the song falling apart midway, but he did it all with a smile on his face. When he would finish pounding out the unrecognizable piece, he would turn his little six year old face up to his father.

"Amazing Scorpius," his father would say, smiling as his arms reached over his son, long fingers twiddling out some cotton-candy happy tune that would make the child laugh, before his son started hammering away at the long-gone melody, making his father beam with joy.

**Review please.**


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